Eat Pray Love

So I was recommended to read this book by Elisabeth Gilbert: Eat, Pray, Love. And I love it. Love it!! In fact we(scrappe/skravle/kose-klubb) found out that we had to make our own "Eat, Pray, Love" - challange blog to complete the experience and just enjoy the stroke of genius this book really is.
We decided to keep the blog just for us, but this is the banner I made for it (as many of you might recongnize this is veery inspired by two of my favorite photographers, Tanja & Charlotte) :


And my first E,P,L page is based on this paragraph from the book:
"I bought all those embarrassingly titled self-help books (always being certain to wrap up the books in the latest issue of Hustler, so that strangers wouldn’t know what I was really reading).
I commenced to getting professional help with a therapist who was as kind as she was insightful. I prayed liked a novice nun. I stopped eating meat (for a short time, anyway) after someone told me that I was “eating the fear of the animal at the moment of its death.”
Some spacey new age massage therapist told me I should wear orange-colored panties, to rebalance my sexual chakras, and, brother—I actually did it.
I drank enough of that damn Saint-John’s-wort tea to cheer up whole a Russian gulag, to no noticeable effect. I exercised. I exposed myself to the uplifting arts and carefully protected myself from sad movies, books and songs (if anyone even mentioned the words Leonard and Cohen in the same sentence, I would have to leave the room).
I tried so hard to fight the endless sobbing. I remember asking myself one night, while I was curled up in the same old corner of my same old couch in tears yet again over the same old repetition of sorrowful thoughts, “Is there anything about this scene you can change, Liz?” And all I could think to do was stand up, while still sobbing, and try to balance on one foot in the middle of my living room. Just to prove that—while I couldn’t stop the tears or change my dismal interior dialogue—I was not yet totally out of control: at least I could cry hysterically while balanced on one foot. Hey, it was a start.
I crossed the street to walk in the sunshine. I leaned on my support network, cherishing my family and cultivating my most enlightening friendships. And when those officious women’s magazines kept telling me that my low self-esteem wasn’t helping depression matters at all, I got myself a pretty haircut, bought some fancy makeup and a nice dress. (When a friend complimented my new look, all I could say, grimly, was, “Operation Self-Esteem—Day Fucking One.”)"